A Grief Observed, part 6

Apologies for the lack of posting last week. Busy schedule. Appropriately, this entry in the journal also comes after a longer pause than usual. It’s about the memorial service. Of all the posts so far, this was the most difficult to re-read and edit.

Week of the Memorial

I have not journaled since last Sunday. We have all tried to keep ourselves super busy, especially me. Mom and I looked at tons of pictures and she helped me pick out her favorites. I had the apparently good idea to share everything with Google Drive. Which meant she needed to log in to her account, but she got it.

Monday I spent with your family again. We finalized some plans after meeting with the funeral director. His name is Bob; he’s very nice. He explains the whole process. I treat it very business-like for some reason. I guess I still don’t believe you’re gone. There’s a lot of moving parts to this thing. Not too many to handle, but enough. Why do I have to do all of this? You are my helper, my person to makes sure I don’t say too much or too little. Fortunately your mom takes on that role for now.

We are happy that she thought of this idea to go to Redlands. Your main home was here. You were always excited to come back here for Cuca’s or Baker’s or La Costa. Or ‘ghetto pizza’, which we pass several times as we navigate to and from the mortuary. “Mortuary” is a strange word right now. I never say the word “funeral” either, during this time. It’s not that I don’t know or understand, I just subconsciously can’t get past the word.

But we are trying to make you proud. The flower shop remembers you and mom and everybody from Soroptimists. They’re very sweet, and D makes sure they have zebra ribbon for your arrangements. Mom sheds some more tears. I know you want us to be okay but we can’t yet. It’s too soon.

I try spending the night in Corona with Keira. She does pretty well at night now, sleeping by me the whole time. I still need a fan on me to sleep. This time I open the window too, which helps make it cooler. It’s still hard without you. I can’t reach over and snuggle you.

Now it’s time to head home to actually start working on your memorial music and slides and things. For realsies. Mom and D are making the cards fully custom, and going to Costco to get a large portrait of you printed. It’s the same picture that I’ve had on my phone background ever since that night. I still can’t say it. You’re coming back. No, you’re in a better place. But I can’t say the D-word.

Keira is happy to be back at the parent’s. She still doesn’t eat; she didn’t eat at all in Corona. But at least here she knows where to bathroom and doesn’t get stressed. I’m still going to take her back up to Corona too. She needs to get used to them.

I stay up way too late. Aunt H and the two Texas girls are out for you, so we have dinner and cards. B&L bring over this super delicious Hawaiian food. I think you would have liked it; it was flavorful but not at all spicy. But the reason I stay up so late is to work on your video. Mom and I painstakingly picked out these songs and pictures. We want to honor you in the best way possible. I’ve been fighting with the technology aspect for too long. You would have told me to stick with one thing and make it work, rather than trying to bounce around between systems. You were always making sure to help me even when I didn’t admit that I needed it.

I drive up to Redlands with K and we listen to music and talk. Some about you, also about me and how we’re handling things. It’s been difficult to open up to some people depending on the subject. She loved you so much, and you know how her attitude has always been. It’s refreshing. Then we get to the mortuary to pay and test the audio and video stuff. It seems to work well. I want your pictures to show on the screens, and your music to play, while people are arriving. Even while we’re seeing you for the last time.

That part is upsetting. We knew that they would prepare your body and make you look nice with the clothes that Mom & D picked out. They did. But you’re so cold. So stiff and cold. I know you’re not here, but I have to say goodbye still. And how much I loved you. I still love you. I will always love you.

After coming back home, I finish making DVD and CD copies. Then I promise everybody I will get some sleep. I try. It’s a little easier tonight, after being done with tech-y things. But still not solid. Keira is sleeping very well though. You would be proud of here, being able to adjust so well here. I worry about here being in her crate all day for the service itself.

Thursday morning, I get up a little early. It feels ephemeral, as if I’m about to go somewhere and do something that can’t possibly be real. But it is very real. I actually need to finish writing my own memorial speech. I guess that’s not the right word. None of this is right. But I use a real pen and your real notebook. I know you were telling me to do it this way, not by typing into the computer and printing something. You knew it would help solidify the words and the fact that you’re gone.

I have to meet in Corona first to change. They say I look nice, and I remember how to tie my tie. I don’t know if you wanted me to wear one but I felt that I wanted to. I decide to drive myself to Redlands, to listen to your music again and prepare myself. I may get there before them, but I sit in the car and gather things up before going in. It looks like Mom & D arrived before me, or at least before I go in. They warn me that you’re there. No, that your body is there, at the front, in the casket. The chapel is lovely, the flowers are so beautiful. You would have loved them. Roses and lilies with zebra ribbon. A few are not coordinated because some family didn’t know of the florist or weren’t told in time.

You still look so beautiful. But you’re cold. And a little waxy. It’s so strange. I’ve never done this before. Even with grandparents, I may have stepped up and seen them but I don’t remember touching them. I kiss your head and hold your hand for a while. We’re all so upset and distraught. I think it did help to see that you were clearly gone. Can I say it yet? I can’t.

I have to keep busy now. Setting up your penguin light-ups and your coloring page [[She colored a beautiful fairy portrait]]. And we try to get the chapel’s sound system to play the music CD I made for you. Music was such a huge part of your life and personality. I feel that you speak to me through it sometimes. I hope you do. The CD player doesn’t seem to be working right; it just keeps repeating the same track. I try to help them fix it, then wonder if some cousin would be available to work it manually. That would suck. Thankfully, I hear they fix it a few minutes later.

Your dad is extremely upset, as is your brother. They know that you’re gone and that there’s nothing left to do, but they loved you so much. We all did. More family starts arriving and we try to hold onto each other to make sure we can pull through. People laugh and cry at our pictures. Especially J, when you’re with S [[her daughter, our niece]], which is often. There are some silly ones too, but thank God nobody found your infamous clown outfit one from Halloween.

The actual service is nice. I feel like we prepared for it, but that we did so in your honor. I don’t want people to acknowledge my work, I want them to see your beautiful face and know how happy you were. You still are. I know you’re up there and so much happier, filled with joy and light and love. But we’re stuck down here, and it’s not fair. Is that selfish? We need your sparkle back in our lives. Nobody in this room will ever forget you, you know that. You touched so many people for the better.

Most of all, me. If not for you, I would never have started writing, nor been blessed with an amazing career move, nor have known your wonderful family, nor developed any sense of fashion or pop culture or pragmatism or generosity. You brought so much positive things to my life, even if you didn’t remember it all. You were never a burden. You were always my person, my heart, my soulmate, my love. I don’t understand why you’re gone.

People tell me I spoke well and I “did great”. Whatever that means. I didn’t start sobbing during my memorial reading, I guess, is what they’re talking about. I did that before. When I was writing to you. You know that, you saw. I just wanted them to see how wonderful you were, how touching your life was, and how sad we all are that it was cut short. Truly before your time. It does not make sense.

We do get one last goodbye with you, just me and your mom. She gently reclaims that cute little gold wine bottle necklace. It’s now a family heirloom. Perhaps it may even have a little bit of you inside it, if it’s an actual container. If not, well, Mom or Barb will always wear it to think of you. But it’s even more apparent that you’re not here. You’ve told us to go on, to be with family, to remember you and to ease our hurt together, to try shedding less tears. Yet each day we are without you, a little piece of us dies again.

you will plan the funeral while in a haze
Fairly accurate. “Happy” is not a word that belongs here, but we do feel that we honored her.

 

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